Altitude
by Jixie
Summary: The real shame was that this was the closest Fidget would ever get to flying again.
1. Chapter 1

Altitude

By Jixie 12/2018

The Great Mouse Detective © Walt Disney Pictures

* * *

The real shame was that this was the closest Fidget would ever get to flying again.

It didn't matter how hard he pushed, though, he couldn't gain altitude. Over the years his bad wing had atrophied so much that he was completely off balance, and just trying sent him spiraling like a whirligig seed.

It was dizzying and terrifying and yet… The wind was racing across his wings and there was nothing but air above or below and it wasn't flying but it was so, _so_ close.

The freefall ended as abruptly as it started. His desperate fluttering hadn't been in vain, slowing his descent just enough that he wasn't knocked senseless upon landing. Physics were on his side as well— the advantage of weighing mere grams— but that was something Basil understood, outside of Fidget's wheelhouse. He knew enough to right himself before hitting the water, entering 'feet first', diving into the cold deep.

Surviving the fall was one thing, but drowning and hypothermia were even greater risks. He swam to the surface, looking for— anything, really. The shore, boats, floating debris, _anything_. There was nothing in sight, and he was at least a hundred meters from land on either side… here size worked against him, he might as well have been in the middle of the ocean. But as far as Fidget was concerned, he'd gotten this far: there was nothing left but to keep going. So, he swam.

* * *

"Oh, no you don't."

Basil tried to look innocent, pulling his Iverness coat on, and wincing in spite of himself.

"I'm _fine_ , Dawson. Besides, this is just a trifle, an errand really…"

Dawson wasn't hearing it. "You didn't want a hospital, fine, suit yourself." He put on his best 'stern doctor' voice. Which… was not really that stern, truth be told. It came across more as 'concerned grandfather' than 'respectable authority'. "So I stitched you up and disinfected your wounds and that makes me your doctor. And I'm telling you. To. Get. Some. _Rest_." He shook his finger with each word and punctuated the last word by prodding Basil in the chest. "Those are _doctors orders_."

Ever so reluctantly, Basil let Dawson help him out of the coat, and shuffled over to his wing-back chair, huffing with indignation.

"Just what have you got up to, after all?"

Casually, the detective held out a piece of paper. There was a squiggle of complex calculations, a hastily drawn map, and some very specific geographic coordinates. "Considering the wind speed, direction, and strength, combined with tidal activities, estimated landing site—"

"Oh, Basil," Dawson sighed as he took the paper. "Still on about that bat, I see."

They'd gone back, steering the balloon over the Thames where Professor Ratigan had thrown his lackey overboard. Basil had insisted it was because he didn't want Fidget to evade the law— especially now that his long-time rival couldn't be brought to justice. But they'd all agreed, if the bat _had_ survived, it would've been needlessly cruel to just let him drown.

In the end, the dark, choppy waters had revealed nothing.

"Surely you know he must be at the bottom of the river by now…"

"Oh, I have no doubt that he's drowned. But if I'm right, the body should have washed up at those coordinates."

"Lovely." Dawson pulled a face.

Basil could feel the other mouse judging him, and slouched in his chair. "I don't like loose ends, Dawson."

And of course, he didn't, but it was obvious enough that this wasn't really about Fidget, it was about Ratigan. Dawson placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'll… I'll follow up on this. In fact, I can bring an officer along," he then playfully punched at Basil's arm, "just in case that blackguard somehow pulled through."

He found Mrs. Judson, instructed her to make sure Basil didn't leave the house, and made it as far as the front door… only to find Hiram and Olivia Flaversham right outside.

"Oh! I was just about to knock," Flaversham said, smiling.

Olivia squeaked with excitement and hugged Dawson, even as he reached out to shake her father's hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Flaversham. How are the two of you doing today?"

"Better. _Much_ better." He paused to adjust his glasses. "It's amazing what a good night's rest in your own bed can do."

"Is that young miss Flabberhadger I hear?"

"Basil!" She pushed past Dawson and ran into the study. "It's _Flaversham_!"

There was the telling groan of a sore and injured mouse, who'd just had a small child jump into his arms, but didn't want said child to know just how much discomfort she was causing him. "Whatever."

"Olivia," Dawson called after her, "Basil needs plenty of rest. Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble while we're gone."

"Gone?" Flaversham asked.

"Ah yes, I was on my way out. Why don't you join me, let Olivia keep Basil company? You'll save me having to track down a bobby." He waved the paper, tapping it with his left hand, mock-Basil style. "It's just a trifle, an errand really…"

"Very funny, Dawson," Basil said, as Dawson stepped out and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Naturally, Basil's calculations proved correct.

It took them a few minutes of searching, but sure enough, there was Fidget— remarkably still alive— at the bottom of the Speaker's Stairs leading down the side of the Thames embankment. He was the picture of misery, perched halfway on a rogue fishing buoy and halfway in the water, soaked to the bone and shivering so violently it nearly threw him off of the float. The embankment wall and the stairs themselves were a coarse stone, easy for any mouse to climb, and _nothing_ to a bat. Except Fidget was well past the point of exhaustion, he'd grab hold of the wall— or the stair— and attempt to pull himself up, only to collapse into the water. There he floundered, crawling back up onto the buoy, and lay senseless as the makeshift raft drifted away from the stairs. After a few minutes he'd recover enough to paddle the buoy back to the stairs, cling to the stone, and try again.

They watched him repeat this fruitless endeavor three times, and each time he took a little longer and struggled a little harder. God only knows how long he'd been at it before they arrived.

"I… I suppose we should…" Dawson said.

"Right," Flaversham agreed. "But how?"

They looked around, but there was no obvious solution for how they could rescue the bat from the river. 'Basil would come up with something.' Dawson thought, but then mentally scolded himself. After all, he was a well educated mouse, and Flaversham was endlessly clever, as his skills building the Queens life-like automaton had proved. They didn't need Basil, surely between the two of them—

There was a splash, the now unmistakable sound of the bat falling in yet again. Dawson hurried over to the edge of the embankment, and watched as Fidget treaded water, hauled himself onto the buoy… only to slide right off, this time sinking down into the deep. He popped up a few seconds later, gasping and panicked, scrambling but unable to get back onto the float.

"Blast it all."

Before he knew it, he was pulling off his coat and shirtsleeves, kicking off his shoes.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Don't worry," Dawson said cheerfully, as he shimmied out of his trousers and undershirt. "It's been a while, but I was the champion swimmer in primary school. If you would, please bring my effects and meet me at the bottom of the stairs." With that, he checked his clearance, took a few steps back, charged to the edge and dove.

Fidget actually fought when Dawson grabbed him, too disoriented to understand what was going on. He was easily overpowered, and Dawson quickly dragged him back to the stairs. The mouse was able to grab hold of the lip to the next step, and with Fidget tucked under his arm, haul them both up. Flaversham was ready, grabbing Dawson under his armpits and pulling with all his might. Once they were over the edge, Dawson crawled forward and dropped Fidget, who coughed up some water before crumpling onto the ground, completely spent.

Dawson shook himself off like a dog, and wrung out the legs of his drawers, drying himself off the best he could before getting dressed. Flaversham stood by and inspected the unconscious bat. With wet fur plastered to his skin, one could make out fresh cat bite wounds— it didn't take a detective to figure _those_ out— and a network of old scars on his bad wing that told a similar story. Adding insult to injury, the strap to his peg leg had broken loose, and the wooden prosthetic was gone.

"I don't think I can do this." Flaversham's voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"Well, I can't say that I blame you, but we've already fished the little scoundrel out. It'd hardly be sporting to throw him back in." Dawson approached as he shrugged his coat back over his shoulders.

Flaversham shook his head, a strange, distant look on his face. "No, it's not… I mean… I don't think I can turn him over to the authorities."

This earned him an incredulous look. "But… but after everything they'd done to you and your poor daughter—"

"I didn't say I _forgive_ him," came the sharp reply. A few moments of silence followed, and he turned away, gazing impassive at the water lapping against the embankment. "I suppose I've been fortunate. Up until he invaded my home, I'd never witnessed real violence… much less experienced it." He made a sound that was nearly a laugh. "In fact, the worst I ever suffered was a good belting in school. These last few days, I've seen enough brutality and abuse and… and _death_ to make up for a lifetime of peace. I've had my fill of it.

"And I can't help feel that this wretched creature has already paid enough for his crimes. It's one thing to leave him to his fate, but to knowingly send him to the gallows…"

"For _high treason_ ," Dawson said, confounded. "In case you're unaware, aiding a traitor is _also_ treason."

"I know, I know."

It was clear Flaversham regretted coming along, and seemed almost hopeful that Dawson would force the issue one way or another… or better yet, that they could simply walk away. Dawson himself was of two minds: on the one hand, he was a veteran and an Englishmouse, with a fierce love for Queen and Country. Ratigan's horrific plot offended him in a way few things could. On the other hand, he was a doctor and a compassionate soul, who'd treated captive enemy soldiers with the same level of care he gave all his patients. It didn't help that Fidget was in such a pitiful state. He glanced back and forth from the other mouse to the bat, before sagging in defeat.

"Alright."

He knelt down and started stripping Fidget out of the soaked clothes. "Give me your undershirt," he ordered Flaversham, who struggled to get out of his shirtsleeves first, and was appalled when Dawson used the shirt to briskly dry the bat's drenched fur. This jostled Fidget awake just enough for him to brace up on his elbows and retch polluted river water.

"Ugh." Flaversham groaned in disgust. Fidget looked up at the sound, fixing him with a vacant stare, before dropping his head and vomiting again. The Scotsmouse scrambled backwards to avoid the back-splash, and Dawson— having long been desensitized to such things— stifled a laugh. After wringing out the undershirt, he tried handing it back to Flaversham, who frantically shook his head. "Toss it in the river."

This did earn a chuckle, and Dawson flung the shirt over his shoulder. "Give me a hand." He took his coat off again, and with Flaversham's help, bundled Fidget up in it. It was so large on him that it nearly wrapped around twice. The shivering quieted down considerably, and he slipped from stupor back into unconsciousness.

They began the tedious process of climbing back up the stairs of the embankment. Dawson would boost Flaversham up the step, then haul Fidget up to him, and then Flaversham would lean over the edge to give Dawson a hand.

All forty-some steps.

"Well Dr. Dawson, what do we do with him after we reach the top?"

He frowned in concentration. "I'm afraid I don't rightly know. We should… we should find temporary shelter nearby. If he survives the night, we can move him to a safer location once he's fit to travel."

"'Safer location'? I cannae put him up— I'd never allow him near Olivia. And you're still boarding with Basil…"

"Oh! No, somewhere else, of course…" He paused, and then laughed, imagining the conniption Basil would have if he showed up with the half-drowned bat in tow. "I was thinking, no doubt Ratigan has many hideouts throughout London. Surely Fidget must know their locations."

Flaversham nodded appreciatively.

They were two-thirds of the way up when Fidget came to. He was still dazed, but alert enough to recognize the two mice. Dawson was just clearing the edge as Fidget kicked his way free of the coat. "Shoot!" He jumped up only to fall backwards, landing hard on his tail.

The bat's expression rapidly changed from confusion to panic to helpless rage as he realized his prosthesis was missing. Then to terror as he realized he was trapped on a stairway with Basil's associates. He quickly scooted backwards until he was pressed up against the next step.

"Shhhh." Dawson started towards him, holding his hands out, "It's—"

Fidget bared his fangs, hackles up. "Stay away. I can still bite!"

"This is a fine 'Thank you' for saving your life," Flaversham scolded.

For a while Fidget said nothing, staring them down. Then the words sunk in, and he came full circle back to confusion. "What?"

"Yes, it's okay." Dawson put on his best 'reassuring doctor' tone. That one he was much better at. "He's right, we rescued you from the Thames."

"I— I woulda got out myself," Fidget said in protest.

Flaversham was ready to argue the point, but Dawson gestured for silence. "We're not going to hurt you."

Too exhausted to keep up the defense, Fidget looked over at the river and slumped. A few moments later and he was out cold again. Dawson grabbed his coat and headed over, but as he reached down, Fidget startled and snapped at him. The mouse jerked his hand away, barely avoiding the bite; the bat flinched, shielding himself with a wing.

"Now listen here, I'm not going to strike you. You've very nearly drowned, and may yet freeze to death." He held out the coat, jiggling it slightly, and Fidget sheepishly sat up and slid forward so Dawson could set it over his shoulders.

He folded his wings and started working them into the comically oversized sleeves. "You got him, then?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ratigan. You got him."

"In a sense," said Flaversham. "He fell off of Big Ben."

Fidget was stunned. "He's _dead?_ "

"As dead as they come," Dawson said. Then he caught Fidget's look of distress. "I know it's a bit of a shock, but you should be relieved."

"He tossed you out an aircraft, for Heaven's sake."

This earned a dismissive hand wave. "Aw, it ain't the first time he tried to do me in."

"Goodness." Dawson was equally appalled by this fact, and his casual attitude about it.

"I can't believe he's gone…"

Flaversham gently changed the subject. "We really should keep moving."

And so resumed the ascent, only marginally easier with Fidget awake: he was cooperative enough, but still far too weak to climb.

They were close to the top when Flaversham suggested one of them scout ahead for a hiding place, he and Dawson agreed that he'd be able to do it quicker. Working alone, he was able to scale straight up the wall of the embankment.

Fidget watched him climb, then looked back down at the flight of stairs behind them, and felt a pang of conscience. Even if it _was_ just to see him brought to justice, these two mice had gone to an extraordinary effort to help him, after he'd done nothing but terrorize them. He'd been wondering how to escape without his peg leg or even a crutch, and carefully waiting for an opportunity to present itself. But an ugly feeling of guilt was starting to grow in the pit of his stomach.

He hoped the feeling was just all the filthy Thames water he'd swallowed. Then reality set in, and he grudgingly decided that he wouldn't escape, that he'd allow Basil's associates to hand him over to the police, and face whatever he had coming. Probably not with dignity— if he was being honest— because he _knew_ what he had coming… but he'd face it nevertheless.

It was even slower going with just Dawson and Fidget, but they finally reached the top, hiding behind the railing while they waited for Flaversham to return. It wasn't long before he appeared across the street, pausing to scan the area for any humans, cats, and— most of all— other mice.

Dawson helped Fidget to his feet, pulling the bat's right arm over his shoulder.

"Don't worry, I'll go along peacefully," Fidget announced as Flaversham approached, earning questioning looks from both mice. "Y'know. I won't try to run away or nothing."

"Ah, well," Dawson replied awkwardly. "That's… that's good to know."

"I've found an alley that suits our needs. Looks as though it's rat territory, which, given the circumstances…" Flaversham said.

"Brilliant. Is it far?"

"Unfortunately yes, and there's not much cover. We'll have to be careful."

"A good mouse is _always_ careful." He gestured to Fidget that they were going to start walking.

Fidget meanwhile was still puzzling over Flaversham's words. "W-wait. What're we doing now?"

"We're going," was Dawson's non-answer. They got a few clumsy steps, Dawson moving forward and Fidget trying to keep pace as he hopped along. "Oh dear, this is just not going to work at all. Terribly sorry about this."

"Woah!" Fidget yelped as Dawson changed tactics, bodily throwing him over his shoulder. "Hey!" Despite the verbal protest, he didn't put up any fight— embarrassing as it was, he was far too exhausted to go along on foot, and a small part of him was relieved.

Dawson and Flaversham darted across the street, keeping close to the base of the human buildings as they made their way down the block. They ducked behind railings and rainspouts, scurried under stairways, and zig-zagged from one side of the street to the next.

"Ohh, I think I'm gonna be sick again," Fidget complained, all the bouncing around aggravating the nausea he still felt from the river water.

"If you are, would you kindly aim away from me?"

Flaversham groaned and covered his ears, looking slightly green around the gills himself. "Please, _please_ could we stop talking about this."

The rest of journey was uneventful, and they miraculously made it to the alley Flaversham had scouted. Here, Dawson finally began to feel nervous. Each species had its own unique scent, and Ratigan had done an exemplary job of disguising his. It was alarming to now walk into an area that was so thick with the scent of rat. 'Looks as if it's rat territory' had been an understatement.

He'd been running scenarios in his mind: what to say if they ran into another mouse, what to say if they ran into a bobby, what they'd do if a cat showed up… Now he started to wonder how to handle a rat. The truth was, the rats wouldn't care one whit about a bat in their turf. Especially one in such a vulnerable state— heck, they might even offer him help. But two upper-middle-class mice? That was quite another story.

Flaversham navigated the abundance of human rubbish, and he couldn't help but beam as he gestured to an empty soup tin. Dawson had to admit it was a perfect makeshift hide-out. The tin can was slightly crumpled, which prevented it from rolling, and the lid hung by a sliver of metal, making it a conveniently mouse-sized door.

In a way, it made him even more anxious. They'd had nothing but good luck so far, surely things were bound to go south any moment. Once inside he set Fidget down, who looked around with increasing bewilderment.

"Where the hell are we?" Then he cringed and clasped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry." For all his devious criminal ways, Ratigan had always 'encouraged' his thugs to be eloquent and not vulgar. Fidget was a lost cause— hopelessly inarticulate, but he'd been cuffed plenty of times for swearing.

Dawson sat down across from him, grumbling about the effect of age on one's knees. "We decided— we're not going to— what we'll do is— er…"

"We're going to help you escape," Flaversham said plainly.

Fidget burst into laughter. "Hwheh heh heh! You can't pull _my_ leg, heh heh, it washed away in the Thames!"

Gradually he fell silent and realized they were serious.

"But…" Fidget's mind raced as he tried to process this. "But I clobbered him and— and grabbed him— the girl was scared somethin' _awful_ _—_ and I shover in the bottle— then the _Queen_. There was stupid Felicia cat and the Queen, I was tryin'a—"

Dawson leaned forward and gently slapped him. "Pull yourself together, child."

Rubbing his cheek in stunned silence, Fidget drew his knees up against his chest. "Thanks." Then he frowned in concentration. "I just… I don't unnerstand."

"To be quite honest, I'm not sure I understand it myself," Dawson joked. "I suppose we—" he glanced back at Flaversham, "—thought you've suffered enough as it is."

"Is there somewhere you can go to hide? One of Ratigan's safehouses?"

Fidget rested his forehead against his knees, curling himself up tighter. "No. They're all compromised now." The fact that Basil— and by extension, the law— knew where Ratigan's sanctum was, meant he'd have a lead to all the other hideouts. Besides, there was little doubt in Fidget's mind that the rest of the crew would be eagerly giving up whatever they could: their fellow mice, locations, treasure caches, details of their previous heists… anything that might gain them some leniency.

"Well, alright." Dawson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "We'll… we'll think of something. The good news is that no one's looking for you, what with four witnesses to your death."

"But I'm not dead?"

"Of course, only we didn't know that when we filled the report, hmmm?" He offered a conspiratorial wink. "As far as the police are concerned, you drowned in the Thames."

"Ohhhh. _Right_." Fidget returned an overly exaggerated wink, tilting his head and hiking up a shoulder. It was silly enough that Flaversham snorted, choking back a laugh, earning a surprised look from both Fidget and Dawson.

The mouse flustered. "Ah, you know, I was thinking we should…" He gestured towards the outdoors. "There's some newspaper out there and… ah…"

"Right you are." Dawson held out a hand, silently requesting Flaversham to give him a lift. "Stay put," he said to Fidget, who shrugged, wondering where exactly Dawson thought he'd go.

Left to his own devices, he started scraping at the film of dried kidney soup from the grooves in the tin. Dawson was right about the risk of freezing, but Fidget was just as concerned about starving— or rather, low blood sugar, as Dawson would've put it. The bat didn't understand how any of that worked, but he was keenly aware that the combination of overexertion, cold, hunger, and stress, had him at the brink.

He was licking the soup flakes off his fingers when Flaversham returned, carrying a bundle of torn paper. The mouse started shredding it, and Fidget reached out, gesturing for Flaversham to hand him a sheet. "I can help with that."

They sat in silence, tearing up the paper into bedding, until Dawson appeared. Apparently the doctor had the same train of thought as his patient, because he carried with him two pillbugs and the fragment of a hard candy drop.

"This was all I could find in the alley. I realize it's rather barbaric to eat these raw, but I'm afraid we aren't in the position to…" Dawson drifted off when he saw the look on Fidget's face, and wordlessly handed him the first isopod. Without hesitation Fidget cracked it open with his fangs and voraciously tucked in. "Slow down," but the order went in one ear and out the other.

He joined Flaversham with the papers, and started planning out the next steps.

"We'll go back to Basil's. I'd like to grab my kit, and then I can return with some provisions. You'll want to take Olivia home, I'm sure. No point in getting _both_ of us in any deeper than we already are."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Flaversham replied with a shrug. "Besides, this was my terrible idea."

To that, Fidget stiffened and froze. "But you—" he started, then swallowed and brought his arm up to wipe his face on the coat sleeve.

"Ah! Ah! Not with _my_ coat you don't!"

Flustered, he used a scrap of the paper instead. "Why'd you want to… After what I…?" He stumbled over the words, and then fell silent, too frustrated by the inability to express himself.

"Is there something that you'd like to say to me?" Flaversham asked.

"Uhhhhmmmm… ummm… th-thank you?" Fidget squeaked.

"Yes, _aside_ from that."

For few seconds they could practically see the gears turning, and it finally clicked together. " _Oh!_ I'm sorry— I'm real sorry."

Flaversham looked him over critically, struck by the distinct impression that Fidget was only saying what he thought the Scotsmouse wanted to hear. "Somehow I doubt that."

Fidget sullenly went back to eating, and had finished the second pillbug by the time Dawson and Flaversham shoved the shredded paper into a pile at the back of the tin. They were preparing to leave when he clumsily stood, half crouched and balancing against the side of the tin.

"Hold on. Mr. Flaversham. Ummm… Ratigan's plan… he needed, uh, your _skills_. Not you. Not personally. It… it could've been anyone." He hesitated, clearly wanting to pace or gesture, and unable to do either. "Me and Ratigan and the guys, we're not, uh, we're not… good. But you are. And the girl too, yeah, she's a real pip. You didn't deserve… you didn't deserve what all we did. And, and, I don't deserve this, um, kindness, from you." There was another uneasy pause. "So, yeah. I'm sorry. Tr-truly."

There was an odd, strained tension in the air, and Flaversham stiffened, setting his jaw. He'd probed for the apology, only to find that he wasn't actually ready for a sincere one. Upbringing had taught him to be forgiving others… but the wounds were just too fresh.

He felt a swell of anger for the first time since he'd been freed from Ratigan's claws. Partially at Fidget— for the suffering he'd caused, for making Hiram feel sorry for him, for not having the good sense to _die_ when he should've, for putting all of them in this terrible position. But also towards himself— for feeling such hatred in the first place, for being unable to forgive, for being too soft to see justice carried out.

For not having the strength to stop Ratigan.

For not saving Olivia.

"Goddamn it," he swore, and hurried from the tin.

The reaction left Fidget too surprised and confused to be offended. Dawson stepped over and gave him an quick pat on the shoulder. "No doubt he simply needs some time to blow off steam," he said, and guided Fidget to the improvised bedding. "Finish this," he shoved the candy shard into his hands, "and get some rest. Doctor's orders. I'll be back with medicine and fresh water."

"I've had about enough of water," Fidget replied, pulling a face before settling in and gnawing at the candy.

"Well, ah, I see. Perhaps I can swing a spot of tea."

"Mmmm." He hesitated, and then, timidly: "Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, no you _didn't_."

Dawson looked confused, because there was no way Basil, even with his genius intellect, could have guessed what they were up to. "Beg your pardon?"

The detective awkwardly got up from his chair, straightening his robe. Olivia looked up from where she lay on the carpet, reading a massive textbook, and cheerfully waved.

"Is that… a book on criminal law?" Flaversham asked, bewildered.

Basil ignored him and started pressing with questions of his own.

"My, you were gone an unusually long time. Dawson, what happened to your coat?"

"My coat? Er, it was—"

"Did you find the bat?"

"Well, no, um, that is—"

"Your fur's all damp and the hem of your trousers are muddy. Was there some sort of," he paused for dramatic effect, " _incident_?"

"Not at all."

Basil puffed his pipe and eyed Dawson and Flaversham up and down.

"Absolutely not," he said with an air of finality. "I forbid it."

"Forbid _what_? Nothing has happened!"

"Nothing? Ha! I'll have you know that aiding and abetting a traitor is treason in itself."

"We know," Flaversham said, a tired note in his voice. "Shall you be turning us in?"

The directness threw him off, and worse, interrupted his gloating. "I— It's not too late to turn this around. We'll simply pop on in to the Police Station on our way to whatever back alley you've stashed—"

Dawson had started up the stairs, and Basil was horrendously offended, but at the same time trying not to demonstrate just how offended he was.

"Excuse me! I am trying to—"

"Daddy!" Olivia stood and brushed herself off, precariously holding up the book that was almost the same size as she was. "Daddy, Basil's been teaching me about crime and, and the law."

"Oh, _has_ he now?"

"Yes, and he's got this book." She hefted it up to show him. "And it says, it says that in Britain, and in um, America, if a mouse or rat is very _very_ bad… like that mean old Ratigan…" Olivia's voice dropped to a whisper, "they get put in a mouse trap!"

"Aye, so they do. That goes the same for any wee beast that lives in Mousedom: voles, shrews, _bats_ …" He shot Basil a pointed look. It was no accident that Basil had shown her this chapter in this book, and Flaversham knew it, and of course Basil knew that he knew it.

"And guess what, Daddy. In France, they take those very bad mice, and… and…" She set the book down. "They get put in a cigar cutter. Then… chop!" She made a dramatic cutting motion with her hand. "Isn't that just awful!?"

"It _is_ awful, my dear, but I don't believe they do that anymore."

Dawson was sneaking back down the stairs, with a suspiciously over-stuffed medical kit bag in hand.

"Well, I'm off to… I have to go find my coat," he said.

" _Dawson_."

He turned with his back to Basil's work bench, trying his best to be subtle and failing spectacularly as he grabbed Fidget's hat. "I'll be back soon!"

" _Dawsonnnnn_ …" Basil repeated, to no avail. Dawson was scrambling out the door.

He jumped when Flaversham placed a hand on his shoulder. "I… I think we need to have a talk, Mr. Basil."

* * *

Where Basil was an obstinate and combative patient, Fidget was ridiculously agreeable. Part of it was the fact that Basil was actually doing quite well and had strong emotional fortitude, while Fidget was exhausted and miserable. But part of it was their circumstances. Basil was triumphant, having saved the day, the girl, the Queen and country. Dawson's coddling rained on his parade. Fidget was adrift, having been defeated and betrayed, and was completely at their mercy. Dawson's attention was a much needed ray of warmth.

Fidget was fast asleep when Dawson returned, and a little disoriented upon waking, but clearly welcomed his presence. He meekly let Dawson walk him out behind the tin for relief; flinched but didn't protest when the doctor disinfected and dressed the cat bite wounds; took every foul-tasting medication offered.

Out front, Dawson built a fire in the bottom of a broken bottle, and boiled some water using the bottle-cap. He hadn't expected Basil would be on to them, and left in a rush, with only a fraction of the supplies he'd intended. Which meant he'd had to stop at a grocer on the way, which meant… well, it meant he was way more invested in this scheme than he should've been.

Basil's 'borrowed' clothes were still too big, but fit much better than Dawson's coat, and as long as it didn't rain, Fidget's own clothing would be dry in a few hours. It was such a small thing, but he was thrilled to get his hat back. To Dawson, the dried salted meat and hard biscuits were a meager meal, but Fidget was enthusiastic. The bottle-cap full of tea, over steeped and unstrained and served without cream or sugar, was the highlight of his day.

A few rats came and went, eyeing Dawson as they passed, but to his surprise no one questioned him.

He put out the fire, gave instructions how much medication to take and when, and left the 'door' cracked open just enough for Fidget to squeeze out when he needed to.

* * *

It was dark by the time he got back to Holmestead, 221B-½ Baker Street.

Flaversham and Olivia were gone, and Basil had actually drifted off in front of the fire. Dawson tried to sneak past him.

"I see you found your coat."

Dawson nearly jumped out of his skin. He glanced back over at the half-asleep Basil and offered him a sheepish grin. "Er, yes, I found it."

"Pity you missed our guests. Well, goodnight Dawson."

He'd spent the entire walk back trying to think of convincing lies and was thrown off by the detective's sudden disinterest. Dawson sputtered for a moment, laughed nervously, wished Basil goodnight, and fled upstairs.

The next morning, after breakfast and tea, Basil gave him a dressing down.

"Dawson this is foolish, incredibly risky, and frankly a waste of time. Let's say you help this miscreant, and he goes into hiding… well, he's too distinctive to get away with an alias, and he isn't nearly clever enough to continually escape the law as Ratigan had. He'll get caught eventually, and without a doubt, finger you and Flaversham as accomplices in his escape." Basil crossed his arms, brows furrowed. "Alternatively, he manages to flee the country. I'm sure you're aware that criminal recidivism is in the range of eighty percent. You'll simply be dumping a violent crook onto someone else."

Dawson knew all this. He found himself unable to look his friend in the eye. "Basil, if you had _seen_ him—"

"Ah, but I was under strict orders from my physician not to leave the house," he countered smugly.

"Besides, if Flaversham can—"

Basil cut him off again, raising his hand and gesturing for silence. "Flaversham's already explained the matter. I realize that I won't be able to… dissuade the two of you from this harebrained scheme. So now my concern is to keep you from failing and ending up in prison yourselves."

"Pardon?"

Basil was heading for his work bench, digging through a heap of coiled up maps. "I've apprehended a great many criminal delinquents over the years, Dawson. I know their habits, their hideouts, their caches… their methods for slipping between the cracks." He turned, a strangely devious look in his eyes. "I know what works, and what doesn't." With a flick of the wrist he unrolled a map, and spread it out on his workbench. "Now, take a look at this…"

A few hours later and they were out the door, Basil getting a temporary reprieve from 'doctor's orders'.

"We're not taking Toby?"

"Come now, Dawson, we can't treat the dog like our own personal coach." He scoffed. "Besides, we're taking a pigeon."

Dawson stopped in his tracks. "A… pigeon?"

"Indeed! You'd be surprised what they'll do for an ounce of sunflower seeds." Then Basil laughed. "On second thought, you probably won't be surprised at all."

* * *

They slid off the pigeon Cyril's back and right into Dawson's earlier fear: they were surrounded by rats.

There was a palpable tension as the mice and rats evaluated each other. Basil and Dawson were greatly outnumbered, but the rats didn't seem inclined to start anything.

"Good evening," Basil said, as calm and cool as if he was passing a neighbor on the street.

"Evenin'," replied one of the larger, more intimidating rats.

The uneasy pause which followed left Dawson feeling like he might explode from the stress. Just when he couldn't bear it anymore, the large fellow shrugged and turned.

"I suppose you're here for the little bat. Come on, then." He casually led them to the soup can, and the other rats went about their business, as if there was nothing out of the sorts. After a few rapping knocks, he swung open the lid 'door' like it was nothing. "Hey, creachán! There's a couple'a mice out here for you."

A minute later Fidget popped out, moving briskly on a forked twig that the rats had fashioned into a crutch. It wasn't _quite_ as efficient as his peg leg had been, but he was clearly experienced with the set up.

"Hey Doc! Lookit what—" He caught sight of Basil, and the giddiness immediately deflated. "Aw, the jig is up."

"As a matter of fact," Basil replied dryly, "I'm afraid I'm 'in on it' this time."

Fidget eyed him incredulously.

"It looks as if you've made some new friends. You should be aware that the more rodents who know you're alive, the more likely you are to get caught."

"I… I know that! It's not like I— they're the ones who— I mean, I'm the one trespassin' here, and…" He grew flustered. "Well, whatever. Rats've always been friends to me."

Dawson groaned and face-palmed. "Fidget, Ratigan was not your friend. I cannot stress this enough: he tried to throw you to _your death_. He fed you to _his cat_. He— he— you know what? Never mind. This is giving me a terrible headache."

For a moment Fidget looked like he was going to argue, but decided against it. He looked up at the hulking rat, and gave a quick nod of respect. "Thanks much."

"It weren't any trouble," he replied warmly, playfully mock punching the bat's shoulder. Then he made a grand sweeping gesture towards the entrance to the alley. "Your ride awaits, small potato."

"Heh heh heh. 'Small potato'."

"This is positively ridiculous," Basil scoffed under his breath.

After collecting the supplies Dawson had brought ("These are my long johns and trousers!?" Basil seethed), they headed back towards Cyril. Halfway there a small rat child darted out and took hold of the detective's Inverness coat.

"'Scuse me! But… you stopped Ratigan, right?" she asked, and Basil rolled his eyes, expecting yet another fawning young fan. "Is it true, he almost stole the throne? And he's the most smartest rodent in London? _And_ he's a rat and he's the smartest?"

There was a half second where Basil looked terribly offended by the questions… only Olivia had softened his rough edges, and he sighed.

"Well, to answer your questions, yes, yes, yes, and yes." He didn't argue that he'd outsmarted Ratigan or that, since the master criminal was dead, he was no longer the smartest _anything_ of London. Instead, he continued, "However, you shouldn't admire him… and not just because he was a criminal. Professor Ratigan denied— he hated who he was. It's normal to aspire to a higher station in life, but not at the expense of your heritage." He gingerly patted the girl on the head. "That is to say… you should never be ashamed of being a rat."

She snorted. "I wouldn't never, mister."

"Hey, leave the poor mouse alone," the large rat warned, and the child scampered off, giggling. "It ain't nearly that simple, is it."

"No, I'm afraid not."

They stopped when they reached the pigeon, who was quietly preening his feathers.

Fidget was doing his best to play off his apprehension, but it was obvious he was horrified, unconsciously clutching at his bum wing. "We're… uh, we're gonna… ride… that…?"

"Don't worry, we won't let you fall." Dawson tried to reassure him, but Basil had already deduced the problem— and it wasn't a fear of flying.

"There's no other option. Just hold tight, keep your eyes closed, and…" he fished a flask from his coat, "this will help."

He unhesitatingly took a hit, and then choked. "Is this _laudanum_?"

"If you don't want it…"

Taking the point, he had another swing from the flask and handed it back. "Hoookay. Let's do this."

Cyril crouched and drooped one wing on the ground, and Basil climbed on. Dawson and the rat helped Fidget up, and finally Dawson joined them. "Wait, all three yous ridin' up top?"

"Sorry old chap," Basil said.

"You owe me, squeaker." Cyril shook his head disdainfully.

"I know." He grabbed hold of Cyril's feathers, and the bird started to take off. Then he tensed up when Fidget clutched his belt and buried his face into the back of Basil's Inverness. The _nerve!_ "I didn't mean hold onto _me_ , you half-wit! I don't even _like you_ —"

"Go n-éirí leat!" the rat called out, waving as they took to the sky.

* * *

It was a nondescript factory, and entry to the mouse-sized safehouse was from the roof, making it inaccessible to actual mice. Or at least, in theory. The notorious red squirrel counterfeiter, Nutkin, certainly hadn't accounted for genius detectives who were willing to bribe pigeons. They disembarked and Basil rushed ahead, yanking open the trapdoor.

"I'm the only one left who even knows this place exists." Then he smirked and tapped his temple. "As well as the only one who could find it otherwise. It may well be the safest spot in the whole city."

"Unless there's a fire."

He did a double take. "Unless— there— what—!? A fire? What the devil are you on about?"

"Heh heh heh! I'm jus' messing with you." Fidget poked his head into the hatch and glanced around, then looked back up, growing serious for a second. "'Cause if there was, I'm onna roof and I can't fly." Then he was grinning again. "Heh heh!" He threw the crutch down, winked at Basil, and jumped in.

There was a crash, and Basil pinched the bridge of his muzzle. "There's. A. Ladder! You nincompoop." He shot Dawson a derisive look. "Dearest Dawson, I may never find it in my heart to forgive you for this."

"Erm, sorry." He grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

Once they were all inside, Basil went about lighting the lanterns. "The factory keeps their furnaces running twenty-four-seven, so it's quite warm." He blew out the first match before it reached his fingers, and looked knowingly at Dawson. "Since you're worried about this dirty reprobate coming down with the pneumonia."

"Basil, he did nearly drown…"

"Yeah, what he said," Fidget agreed.

Basil lit another lantern and flicked the spent match at Fidget. "It was a bird, wasn't it?"

"What about a bird?" Dawson asked.

But Fidget understood, and he stared hard at the ground, ears folded back.

"Owl."

"A-ha. I had a suspicion it was an accident of misfortune, not a birth defect. I suppose you lost your leg in the same incident?"

"Nope."

Basil was surprised that he'd made the wrong call there, but pressed on. "You must've been quite young."

"Yeah."

"Come, come, now. Give me some multi-syllabic answers here, Fidget the peg-legged _oh wait_ …"

" _Basil!_ " Dawson was horrified.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about this."

"It's _not_ all the same to me," Basil said in a warning tone.

"Yeah, I was around, um, around the age of that Flaversham girl."

"Oh, that's terrible."

Basil ignored Dawson. "She has a name, you know." He finished lighting a third lantern.

"Olivia." Fidget wilted as he said it.

"Olivia. And you're now, what, at least twice that, give or take…?"

"Give or take."

"But you don't really know, do you. So the leg, what happened there?"

Fidget sat down slowly, placing the crutch across his lap. "Mousetrap."

"Ahhhh, there it is."

Dawson looked expectantly at Basil, ready to hear his assessment.

"After all, there's no place in the roost for a 'ground-crawler'… that's what your kind calls us, correct? You try to make a life here, among mice, only to go from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Then comes along Professor Ratigan, and with him food, shelter, a sense of security. In return, he gets to add a pet bat to his menagerie—"

Fidget was seething. "I ain't nobodies pet."

"Oh _yes you were_ ," Basil countered. "You and Lizard William and Inky the Shrew and Four-Aces-Fred the Hedgehog, all the same as that blasted cat, Felicia. Think about it, if you posses the brain power. You _can't fly_ , Fidget, do you think Ratigan kept you around because of your skills?"

To that, he hid his face in his wings and made a small hitched choking sound.

"So you loyally follow your master, until he gets angry with you or grows tired with you— as he did with Inky and Four-Aces-Fred— because you haven't the initiative or discipline to better yourself. And here we are."

"What…?" Dawson started, and frantically glanced from Basil, who was now climbing up the ladder to the roof, and Fidget, who was having a meltdown. "Basil! Wait!" He scrambled after his friend. "Basil, how could you? That poor creature—"

Basil, without the slightest hint of malice, held up a hand. "Please, Dawson, let me stop you right there. You're an honorable mouse, kind-hearted and full of compassion, and I sincerely hope that never changes. What you fail to understand, however, is that they're _all_ poor creatures. Every murderous scumbag, every mean-spirited lowlife, blackguard, thug, and ne'er-do-well. They are starving orphans, and abused children, and the undeserving poor who've been beaten down until their spirit is crushed. The desperate, who turn to desperate acts because they feel like there's no other option, and they can't see another way out. Each and every one of them has a sob story about how their tragic life turned them to crime. Yes, even Ratigan."

He stepped closer and placed a sympathetic hand on Dawson's shoulder.

"There have been times that I've turned a blind eye, or refrained from handing over evidence to Scotland Yard, when the culprit was unlikely to re-offend. Minor offenses, extenuating circumstances, the truly remorseful… You and Flaversham, however, are proactively helping someone who made an attempt on the Queen's life, and had a hand in Ratigan's wicked coup d'état plot. I've chosen to humor you on this one, Dawson, because you're new to this and it's all fresh and horrific to you.

"But rest assured that there will always be another 'Fidget'. Another sad, broken creature drowning in the Thames; another harrowing tale of loss. You need to learn to let justice take it's course, because otherwise, these 'poor creatures' will ultimately drag you under with them."


	3. Chapter 3

He'd ended up in a prison of sorts after all.

For the past few years Ratigan had done all the thinking for him, and Fidget simply existed. He didn't have to question what they did, or consider how it effected others, or worry about things like the future. Nuances like empathy, or self-examination, those were all above his pay grade. He followed orders.

Now he was alone with his own thoughts, and it was _terrible_.

Alone with Basil's stinging, painfully true words. With Hiram Flaversham's rejection of his apology. The grief for his master, because awful as he was, Ratigan had also been a teacher and friend of sorts. The burden of guilt that he'd blissfully ignored for so long.

The knowledge that being thrown out of that dirigible was the closest he'd ever get to flying again.

Dawson had told him 'the good news' was that the police believed he was dead, and no one was looking for him. Fidget had enough sense to suss out 'the bad news' for himself: there were _very few_ bats actually living among mice, and of those, he was probably the only one in all of London missing a right leg. Maybe no one was looking for him, but they'd sure as hell recognize him if he was spotted.

Despite that risk, he spent the night out on the rooftop, where he watched his brethren hunt in the moonlight, humans stumbling from pubs or turning tricks, hard-working rats scavenging for a living. He bathed and washed his clothes in a pool of rainwater, caught a few mayflies, and wished he'd pinched Basil's flask of laudanum. When he finally went back inside to sleep, Fidget dreamt of tearing a ruined wing from razor talons and falling, falling, falling from the top of the larch tree, only instead of landing in leaf liter on the forest floor, he landed in the Thames river.

And the water was so cold.

* * *

He was up on the roof again, this time tipping out the sanitary bucket over the ledge, when the pigeon Cyril returned. To Fidget's immense relief, Hiram Flaversham was the only passenger— he wasn't sure he could bear facing Basil or Dawson so soon.

Better yet, he had brought ample supplies. Fresh water, better food, clean clothes. And books! Lurid adventure yellow-back novels, the cheap low-brow entertainment of the masses. Ratigan hated them as much as Fidget loved them, and had scolded the bat more than once with 'I didn't teach you to read for _this_ '.

It was great, too, because Fidget had a talent for talking about nothing of substance, and his favorite trashy stories were perfect fodder for idle conversation. He jabbered away as he helped Flaversham unpack, never coming close to any uncomfortable, thought-provoking topics.

"I'm not one for fiction, honestly," Flaversham admitted. "I'll be sure to let Basil know you're happy with them."

" _Basil?_ "

"Aye, the books were his idea. I think he even picked them out for you, they don't look like anything from his collection…"

Fidget laughed nervously in response, struggling to process this. It was hard enough coming to terms with the fact that his former victims were helping him, at great personal expense, and doing so with kindness and respect. The books were nonessentials, though, and a thoughtful choice— no, gift. The idea that Basil, who clearly hated him, would still be so considerate…

His train of thought derailed when he noticed Flaversham was pouring drinks from a thermos. "Mmm, tea."

"Better yet, hot toddies," he grinned, handing him a cup.

"Cheers," Fidget said out of reflex.

After a moment of hesitation, Flaversham lifted his cup. "To health."

* * *

Dawson came the next day, with food, water, more medicine, and re-treated Fidget's wounds.

"Your best option is to stay in hiding until you've recovered, then flee the country," Dawson said. "It'll be no use going anywhere in the British Rodent Kingdom, so any of our colonies are out… and honestly, America, Canada, or Australia would just ship you right back." He paused and smirked. "On the other hand, France might give you a medal…"

Fidget slumped. The idea of starting over _yet again_ , all alone in a strange place with no prospects, unable to speak the language, unfamiliar with the culture… it filled him with dread. It was better than drowning or execution… but only marginally, as far as he was concerned. Hell, he'd lived in Mousedom longer than he had the Pipistrelle caravan, and still had trouble with English at times.

Dawson was quick to change the subject. "Any coughing? Weakness of breath?"

"Nope."

"Hot or cold spells? Aches?"

Fidget shook his head. "Just tired from all the… y'know, everything."

"You really are tough as old boots, aren't you."

He laughed. "Ratigan said I was 'indestructible'."

"Well, I think he may have been right about that one."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"How'd you end up a doctor?"

Dawson did a double take. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Well, I… I decided to become a doctor because I had a strong passion for the sciences, and wanted to put that passion to good use. What better use could there be than medicine?" He paused. "I studied at St Bart's Mouse Hospital and got my degree from the Rodent University of London. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Ah, well." Dawson settled in and started sharing stories of his service in the 66th Regiment and being injured in the Battle of Maiwand, about his college days and early career and playing rugby in his youth.

Fidget hung onto every word, and Dawson was oddly flattered by the bat's admiration.

* * *

It was two weeks since Ratigan's foiled plot, and Fidget was going stir crazy, trapped in the accidental prison, lonesome for all but a few hours each day. Cyril started visiting on his own initiative, even bringing his missus a few times. Fidget welcomed the company, even though avian sensibility meant they weren't much for conversation… it was still nice to have someone around.

He was crestfallen to find out that this was Flaversham's last visit.

"I'm lucky to have found a shopkeeper I can hire on such short notice," he was explaining. "Olivia and I will be heading back to Scotland tomorrow."

"Well… good luck, then."

Flaversham tapped his fingers against his knee anxiously. "I was meaning to tell you, before we left…" He hesitated. "Olivia doesn't know about, well, she doesn't know about… this," gesturing to the room and the bat. "But I asked her if you and Ratigan had survived, would she forgive the both of you. She said, 'if they were _really_ sorry… I'd think about it'."

With that Flaversham gave a dry laugh, shaking his head.

"Well, I've been thinking about _that_. I don't know if I have it in my heart to forgive, not right now. For what it's worth, I do accept your apology."

"Okay," Fidget replied lamely. "I don't think Ratigan'd be sorry, though."

"That was hypothetical, laddie."

"Oh, right. I knew that."

When Flaversham laughed this time, it was genuine.

* * *

The worst thing about Flaversham leaving was that… well, Fidget found himself genuinely missing the Scotsmouse, and not just because he was desperate for company. The second worst thing was it meant Basil had to be more involved.

He was never as hard on Fidget as he'd been that first time, but that was partly because he never spent more than a few minutes at the safehouse. Conversations were short and to the point, which was why Fidget was so surprised whenever Basil actually engaged.

"Dawson says your health is improved enough to travel," Basil said. "I'll have you know, he's quite stunned that you've managed to dodge pneumonia or fever."

Fidget shrugged in response.

"In light of that, I've secured transport to Holland, and all the… necessary documentation."

There was a strained edge in Basil's voice, and Fidget realized how difficult it must have been for the detective to work on the wrong side of the law… for his formal rival's flunky, no less.

"Thanks. That's real big of you."

"Hmm." He paused, adjusting his hat. "You know I'm only doing this for Dawson and Flaversham."

"I know, but still."

Almost as an afterthought, Basil continued, "It's not that I don't feel pity for you, Fidget. The fact of the matter is that Ratigan committed a terrible crime, one you _willingly_ helped him with. The Queen represents the very heart and soul of Mousedom and her subjects. There's no amends for the sort of treachery you've engaged in, no matter how sorry you may be about it now. The law demands retribution, and without law and order, we would be the mindless beasts that humans believe we are."

He scowled at that. "So? What'd you have me do about it?

"Go to Holland, make an honest living, settle down, put this life behind you. Or… do the honorable thing and turn yourself in."

"Yeah, and get snuffed. You'd like to see that, eh."

"Not particularly. Truth be told, I'm not an ardent supporter of the death penalty. I find it rather… distasteful." He gave the bat a pointed look. "However, in consideration to the nature of Ratigan's and— by extension— your crimes, I would like to see justice served."

Fidget snorted dismissively. "Sounds to me like a long-winded way'v saying 'you get what's coming to you'."

* * *

Basil _was_ right though, of course. _Of course_. It ate at him, and Fidget found himself missing Ratigan, missing his old life, when things were simple and he didn't have this sickening guilt in his gut all the time.

It was a weight, pulling him down, wearing away at him. Every bad decision he'd made, a lifetime of them… The more Fidget thought about it, the more he realized that he'd never made a single good decision in his life. It wasn't even like he could place the blame squarely on Ratigan. No, Fidget had chosen to throw his lot in with the rat, to serve him faithfully, to carry out every wicked order.

He was _painfully_ aware just how little he deserved Flaversham's and Dawson's— even Basil's— kindness and generosity. Because the fact of the matter was…

…on some level, he'd enjoyed doing the terrible things that he had done.

His dreams were plagued with the same nightmares: He was falling, from the roof of the colony cave, from the treetop, from the dirigible. He was drowning, in the water, in the dirt, in the cesspit.

When he woke up, he found he was still falling, still drowning.

No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't stay aloft.

* * *

Dawson was distraught when, a few days later, he found the safehouse abandoned. Cyril bashfully admitted he'd given Fidget a ride to the ground.

"It's for the best, really," Basil had tried to reassure him. "We were playing a dangerous game, helping him on the lam. It's better for all of us if we don't know where he's gone."

They weren't in the dark for long.

"Huh."

'Huh' was the only warning he got. "Is it a clue about the missing emerald?"

Wordlessly Basil handed him the newspaper, and Dawson's heart sunk.

The criminal genius Professor Ratigan's right-hand bat— presumed dead by the authorities— had mysteriously re-appeared, surrendering and giving a confession of his part in the rat's plot to seize the throne. The article mentioned his remarkable survival, but nothing about him receiving any sort of aide. The fact that they were learning all this from the paper, and not the police, told them that Fidget kept mum on their involvement.

It left Dawson feeling like their efforts had been in vain, but Basil seemed almost proud of Fidget.

"I didn't think that scamp had it in him," he said, taking pause when he caught Dawson's look. "Well, there's nothing we can do now. One could argue that he was under duress, Ratigan certainly killed any disobedient henchmice… but coercion is no defense for high treason. One could argue insanity… but while Fidget may be scatterbrained, he's still perfectly sane." Basil paused for a moment. "Really, the only hope he has now would be a royal pardon."

"I suppose you're right," Dawson replied glumly.

"Chin up, my friend. If that little peg— sorry— bat was decent enough to turn himself in, then the least I can do is be decent myself, and request leniency on his behalf. It's a long shot, of course, but they _did_ overlook Flaversham's part in the plot…"

It was obvious Basil expected nothing to come of this. It was an empty gesture, really, because he might not have done it if he actually thought it would work.

Dawson was touched nonetheless.

* * *

" _Unbelievable_."

Basil stumbled slightly as he made his way into the study, slumping into his wing-back chair as he re-read the letter for a third time.

"What is it?" Dawson popped out of the kitchen, tea-tray in hand.

Casually, the detective held out a piece of paper. It was a response to Basil's plea for leniency on Fidget's behalf. It wasn't even directly from the Queen, rather the Lord High Chancellor, but it reflected her sentiments. Throughout her reign there had been multiple attempts on her life, and Ratigan's was the most sinister by far. It was an outrageous request, and if _anyone_ but Basil had asked…

But Basil _had_ asked, and his daring and spectacular rescue saved no only the Queen, but the throne itself. His rational argument that Fidget could've run, and his surrender was evidence of genuine remorse, was not taken lightly. The fact that Basil's own reputation would be at stake, should the bat be freed, was given consideration.

Dawson's brows arched as he glanced up from the letter. "Basil…"

The detective started his massaging his temples, trying to stave off the growing headache.

"Un-be- _liev_ -able, Dawson. They're actually giving him a bloody pardon."

* * *

Hopping a moving carriage turned out impossible with the crutch, which meant it was a long walk from prison gates to the nearest human cable trolley stop, followed by an even longer trek to his destination. Fidget stood outside the door to 221B-½ Baker Street for several long minutes before he worked up the nerve to knock.

Mrs. Judson answered, warm and friendly, as if he were any old client. But she had to know, he thought, as she ushered him in. "Oh good, good, I see you got Dawson's telegram. They're in the study, this way now…"

Basil was waiting, fingers steepled, watching with intense scrutiny as Fidget scampered in.

"Sit," he said, giving a firm command. Fidget planted himself in the chair across from Basil, only for the mouse to leap to his feet. "You know, saving the Queen and all of Mousedom, that's a once-in-a-lifetime experience." He started pacing.

"Yeah, I know."

"I like to believe that any upstanding mouse would have done the same, but nevertheless, it earned me a certain degree of… influence. Influence that could be used to ask a once-in-a-lifetime favor without being laughed out of England." He paused. "A favor I've squandered on a _royal pardon_ for one 'Fidget the peg-legged bat'."

"Don't be too cruel, Basil," Dawson said.

Fidget's ears folded back as he shrunk into the chair. "I— I can't ever repay you for any of this…"

"No, of course you can't. That's why it's called a 'royal prerogative of mercy'. It is an act of mercy, and by its nature, forgives a debt which _cannot_ be repaid." He gave Fidget a questioning look. "Do you have any idea why you were pardoned?"

"'Cause… 'cause you asked?"

He laughed. "Well yes, but do you know why I asked?"

"Oh, um… I turned myself in, like you said."

Dawson gasped. "Basil, you put him up to it?"

"Not at all. I told him it was the honorable thing to do. The fact that he did it… that was all you, Fidget, hm? It showed integrity, repentance, and," Basil paused to tap Fidget on the forehead, "that you're capable of growth." Then Basil shrugged. "Besides, Dawson is inexplicably fond of you, and I hated to see him so glum."

"It's called 'compassion', Basil."

"Ah, well scratch that then… Dawson doesn't like you either, he just thinks you're pathetic."

"That's not what I said!"

"You got a point?" Fidget asked Basil, growing irate.

"Yes! The point is, under that repugnant, villainous surface, is _something_ worth salvaging. Tell me, Fidget, are you aware that criminal recidivism for ex-offenders is around eighty percent?" He saw Fidget's glazed look, and sighed. "It means relapse. Eighty percent of the time, a thief finishes his sentence and goes right back to stealing."

"Oh, er, no. I didn't know it."

Basil's eyes lit up. "Yet the rates for juveniles is much better… around twenty percent. Can you guess why?"

He thought about it for a moment.

"Kids're more adaptable?"

"That's a good guess. Actually, it's because of reformatory schools and apprenticeship programs. Youths are taught a trade and given employment. While an adult with forms face reduced employment opportunities. On that note…" Basil crossed his arms. "I've staked my very reputation on you, Fidget. _Don't_ make me regret it. If you can't shape up, then you'd best ship out." He reached into his robe, and handed the bat a parcel. "The earlier offer to leave for Holland still stands, if you think you can't hack it. But if you want to stay…"

Fidget looked at him expectantly.

A smug look spread across Basil's face. "If you want to stay, arrangements have already been made. I've secured a working apprenticeship with a former client. It's in a print-shop, which means a respectable wage for someone of your station. Plus, you'd get to make those horrid yellow-backs you love so much." He made a dismissive gesture, just to make clear his low opinion of the boorish stories.

"Mrs. Judson's worked out an agreement for you to room with the red squirrel family in one of the attic flats," Dawson added. "She's covering your rent in exchange for basic home repairs and household chores…"

"Which you're expected to perform in addition to your actual job."

Fidget stood and made his way to the fire place, lost in thought as he gazed at the dancing flames.

"It's not a free ride. You'll have to work hard and diligently, keep on your best behavior, and live honestly. There won't be any second chances."

Silently, he flipped through the documents from the parcel: a new identity, fake employment history and health records, a travel itinerary. He casually dropped them into the fire.

"Y'know, Ratigan hated those trashy novels as much as you do." He flashed a cheeky grin at the detective.

"You know, if that lout hadn't thrown you out the aircraft, he wouldn't have crashed it, and quite possibly would have gotten away." Basil replied with a smirk.

Fidget's eyes widened, the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Heh heh heh! You're right!" Then he lunged at Basil. Before the mouse knew what was happening, he was trapped in an overly enthusiastic bear hug.

"Thank-you- _thank-you-thank-you_ _—_ "

The first time Olivia embraced him was bad enough. _Then_ , Basil was uncomfortable. _Now_ , he was appalled. "Oh, good grief! Dawson! Get this infernal thing off of me!"

Dawson chuckled as he intervened, prying Fidget away from a distressed Basil. "There's one more thing." Dawson had an excited, tightly-wound note in his voice, as if he'd been waiting all night for this.

"Ah, yes, how could I forget?" Basil paused, aggressively brushing himself off. "You also owe me ten shillings."

"Ten shillings!?" He was dismayed. In that moment, it was just as impossible of a debt as the royal pardon was.

"Mm. Well, I sound foolish calling you 'peg-legged', but 'Fidget the amputee-on-crutches bat' just doesn't roll off the tongue, now does it?"

"I'll take you tomorrow to get fitted," Dawson continued, grinning, "and pick up a new prosthetic…"

And then Fidget was clamped onto Basil again, trembling as he desperately tried not to cry.

"Ugh," Basil groaned. "It's an _advance_ , not a gift, you dunce. You still have to pay me back." But when Dawson moved to free him, he waved him away. "No, it's… fine. I'll just… lie back and think of England…"

Fidget started laughing through the tears. He'd been such an idiot, thinking the fall from Ratigan's craft was the closest he'd get to flying again. Because for once, he was finally gaining altitude.

* * *

A/N: Criminal recidivism really was around 80% towards the end of the 20th century (although their laws were also totally bonkers). Current rates are around 50%.

Lower class laborers lived 'hand to mouth' and almost all of their paycheck went to food and shelter. 10 shillings is 1/2 to 1/3 an average paycheck. That cost is historically accurate.


End file.
